


Devotion to Style

by cookiegirl



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: AU: Personal Shopper, Alternate Universe, Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, Community: purimgifts, First Meetings, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-18 20:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18126290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiegirl/pseuds/cookiegirl
Summary: Marvin reluctantly attends an appointment with a personal stylist. The stylist isn't quite what he expected.





	Devotion to Style

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smallredboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/gifts).



The department store is maze-like and overly bright. By the time Marvin reaches the personal shopping counter, he’s getting a headache. He’d rather be at the office, or at lunch, or - hell, even at home.

“Marvin Cohen,” he announces to the assistant. “I have a -”

“A personal styling session, of course. We've assigned you one of our finest stylists. He's -”

_“He?”_

“Yes, sir. His name is -”

“Whizzer.” The voice comes from behind him. “Whizzer Brown.” 

Marvin turns, and his breath stutters. Damn, the guy’s pretty. He’s tall - taller than Marvin - and lean but muscled, with sharp, sparkling eyes.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cohen.” The stylist holds out a hand for him to shake. It’s warm and strong; Marvin grips it tightly.

“Marvin,” he says, though he’s not generally one for informality. 

“Marvin,” Whizzer repeats, smiling brightly. Marvin can't help but smile back.

“Well,” Whizzer says, giving Marvin a long once-over, “we better get started. We’ve got a lot to do.”

Marvin tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The notes say you want two different outfits,” Whizzer says. “That’s a lot of work for one hour.”

“Oh. Right.”

Whizzer’s lip quirks. “This way, Marvin.”

There’s nobody else in the dressing room, thankfully; just empty cubicles, and a rack stocked with clothes, which Marvin assumes are in the sizes he gave over the phone.

“So,” Whizzer says. “One outfit for an office party and a bat mitzvah, one for a wedding?”

“I don’t see why I can’t wear the same to all three,” Marvin says, “but my wife said…” He trails off, regretting mentioning Trina, his wedding ring suddenly itchy. He covers it instinctively. 

“Your wife is right,” Whizzer says, and Marvin thinks there's amusement in his eyes. “You need at least two. If not three.”

“How convenient for you. I suppose you work on commission?”

Whizzer ignores the question. “Let’s get… _this_...off you, shall we?” he says, gesturing to Marvin's green corduroy jacket. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “And burn it,” but when Marvin glances at him, he smiles beningly.

“It’s comfortable,” Marvin says, taking it off. “It goes with everything.”

“It does not,” Whizzer tells him. “Now, what kind of thing did you have in mind?”

“I…” Marvin stops. He didn’t have anything in mind. He only agreed to this appointment because he wanted Trina to be quiet and let him go to bed.

“Isn’t it your job to tell me what I want?” he says finally, and then regrets it, because Whizzer's definitely amused this time.

“I can do that,” Whizzer says.

Marvin answers some questions about the wedding and party venues, then Whizzer guides him into a cubicle.

“Let’s try you in navy first,” Whizzer says. “Everything off,” he orders, gesturing up and down Marvin’s body, and Marvin’s sure he winks before drawing the curtain between them. Marvin swallows, then shucks off his pants, shirt and tie.

A moment later there’s a hand through the curtain, holding navy slacks and a striped shirt. Marvin grabs them, puts them on, and - 

Well. He looks…different. Not better. Just different. The clothes are more fitted, the fabrics are finer.

“Let’s see you,” Whizzer says, and Marvin hesitates, facing the mirror. This is stupid. Dressing up so another man can tell him how he looks. It’s…

“Marvin?” Whizzer’s voice is softer, closer. “Can I come in?”

“Uh. Yes.”

Whizzer draws back the curtain. He glances over Marvin’s reflection, then runs his eyes up and down Marvin’s back, his eyes lingering on his ass.

“That,” Whizzer says, “is a definite improvement.” He steps closer and adjusts the shirt collar, his fingers brushing Marvin’s neck gently. 

“And look at this,” Whizzer says, as he smooths the shirt down Marvin’s arms and straightens the cuffs. “You had muscles under all that plaid.” 

Marvin shrugs him off, readjusts the cuffs. “I work out,” he mutters.

Whizzer steps away briefly, then returns with a navy tie and a leather belt. “May I?” he says.

Marvin’s perfectly capable of tying a tie himself. But -

“Sure.”

This time Whizzer's close enough behind him that Marvin can feel his body heat. His hands move smoothly, tying a more complicated knot than Marvin ever uses. Warmth spreads up Marvin's neck and down his chest. He swallows and his Adam’s apple catches against Whizzer’s thumb. Their eyes meet in the mirror.

Whizzer moves to his waist, loops the belt through the slacks, and brings his hands to the front to fasten it. There’s no mistaking the way Whizzer’s hand brushes the front of Marvin’s pants, over the bulge that’s starting to grow.

Marvin grabs his wrist. 

“Everything okay, sir?” Whizzer asks, and Marvin wants to hit him, or slam him against the wall and kiss him.

“Is this level of attention usually included in the service?” he asks sharply, but Whizzer just smiles and shakes his head.

“I’m not even -” Marvin starts, pointlessly, because Whizzer’s hand is back at his waist and slipping down and there’s no denying that Marvin’s hard.

“Of course you’re not,” Whizzer says. He strokes Marvin through the fabric and Marvin tenses, trying not to react. The view in the mirror is something new: intoxicating and disturbing and undeniable. Marvin usually has encounters with men under the haze of alcohol, in dimly-lit bar restrooms, not beneath the glare of halogen lights and opposite a full-length reflection.

He forces himself to turn around, realizing too late that he’s now tight against Whizzer, their lips inches apart.

“Not here,” he says roughly. “It’s not discreet.”

“Okay.” Whizzer steps back. 

Marvin feels the loss, regrets his decision instantly.

“We’ve got other outfits to try, anyway,” Whizzer says blandly. He moves away, and Marvin can’t help pulling him back.

“Wait…”

Whizzer pauses. “You should take me to lunch sometime,” he says. “I’m here Mondays through Wednesdays. Come by.”

Lunch? Absolutely not. A dalliance in a bar is one thing, just an aid to help Marvin through his marriage, but lunch is… real. A date. 

And yet -

“Okay,” he says. 

Whizzer smiles. “Great. Now, let's try something in charcoal grey.”


End file.
